


finding mornings and losing nights

by shirururi



Category: Dr. STONE (Anime), Dr. STONE (Manga)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, M/M, Second person POV, bittersweet???, i don't know what this is, im sorry for tainting the sngn tag ily, implied sengen, poetic bullshit, question mark, theres almost no dialogue, this is just word vomit, uhh angst?? what is angst is this angst, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24978349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirururi/pseuds/shirururi
Summary: The sun sets, yet the night never comes.The sun rises, yet the morning never comes.dcst wk day 2: nature--found family, flowers(?), wings
Relationships: Asagiri Gen & Ishigami Senkuu, Asagiri Gen/Ishigami Senkuu, Ishigami Byakuya & Ishigami Senkuu
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11
Collections: Dr. Stone Week 2020





	1. nights

There's _something_ you want to write.

You want to write about the papers scraping in and through, gently cutting galaxies in your calloused hands. You want to write lustrous adventures run by a rich mind-- into the endless and beyond, where lost lights are sought, and spirits of the pasts are re-livened. 

You want to write for the sake of scribbling your stars in the ceiling of the heavens. There's _something_ up there, hidden by the haze of the sulky night, and you'll _reach_ it with feathers of sapphires and rubies scattering about. 

You want to write about how everyone dances in someone else's palms. Their strings are tied and bought; their strings caught and wobbled. That's why, with wonders in their eyes, they fall from the sky they never flew in once. That's why, with wonders in their eyes, they flock to you and ask, _"Why don't you read instead?"_

_ You _ cackle at them, fiddling with inventions and innovations of dreams that _couldn't_ - _be_ only if the hundred nights you wished weren't bare; only if it doesn't take a hundred nights to blossom feathers of different spectrums. 

_ "You have your own wings."  _

__

_ "There's no reason not to use them."  _

You're never interested in history books unless it has _meaning_ ; but you know you _would_ write one detailing sold cars and grand _gifts_ , of a dear telescope sitting pliantly on a well-used table, of whispers of _facts_ _(and never tales_ ) in the silent dim of a lamp covered in wishes, and of the rich taste of _ramen_ in your tongue. 

In history books, there would be your words, personally hand-written, of how _exhilarating_ it would be to take one's feet off everybody's palms, and of a father that made you have the _means_ to do so. 

(You often think how you could've filled his arms with writings of gratitude and love; of how you could've tattooed your respect and admiration for him in his heart.) 

(You could've _written,_ but you _didn't._ ) 

. 

. 

. 

There's always things you _would've_ liked to write. In torn and burnt papers, scribbled are planets from afar; scribbled are glitters of constellations in a once murky jar. In old and worn papers, written are the in-between of shadows and sunlight; written are the wails of the lost sea. 

It only takes a deep plunge by the mutated skies to wipe the slate clean. 

(It only takes one, deep plunge to lose your hundred nights forever.) 

For 3700 years or so, everything is _gone._

. 

. 

. 

3700 years later, you wake up with shattered stones and cracked, returned senses; the first feeling beneath your palms a forbearing meadow, and the first sight was of a clement sky. 

(Thoughts of your loved ones slid by like haywire storms.) 

And even if the world has deteriorated into a reposeful but empty one-- you know you _would_ _rewrite it again._

In a tree, carved are your first words with your hands after losing them for 3700 years or so. 

. 

. 

. 

One look underneath your leadened arms supporting a sleepy head, there would be always scribbles of the heavenly bodies patrolling the night sky. Your first love, _the moon_ , would be always there to watch you just beneath your telescope. 

Sometimes, you'll wake. 

Oftentimes, when you blink, you'd feel like you can feel how tender the moon is in the palm of your hands; of how soothing was its coldness, of how tranquil was its lullaby with the stars adorning it in its wake. 

(So in your lone wake in the Stone World, you gaze up at the night sky.) 

Sometimes, you hold your hand up after an exhausting day of trying to survive. Oftentimes, you enclose your hands around the moon, only if it could give you the impression that everything was not _lost._

But all it gives you is a far-away orb of what _has-beens._

(You know the exact amount of seconds you've been awake by now.) 

(You know the exact amount of seconds you've been alone by now.)

It pulls a grin out of you-- of how _exhilarating_ it would be to retrace the scribbled stars in your ceiling with your bare feet, of how you would map the drought of the land with wails of lost seas, and of _how you'll save humanity._

(Taiju, Yuzuriha, Byakuya--) 

_ I'm going to save them all.  _

That night, you leave a promise to the moon. 

(You don't want to write about the lies of the thousand skies; of how it weeps for the return of its night skies, of how bygone days are now covered with nimbus and never cirrus. When it rains, sometimes you think of how muddled and intolerable is _your_ temporary refuge, and of how it's better to be embraced by the slumber of the night.) 

. 

. 

. 

You want to write about nitric acid and small achievements, of best friends awoken, but _never_ of born enemies--of how a small difference in belief can change fates and of how you refused an offer from a suffering man who's lost everything long ago. 

(You need _everybody_ to reach the heavens-- you write, convincing yourself; one that Taiju and Yuzuriha would often erase for you. Kindness is not one that defines you.) 

_ Exhilarating _ as it is-- the burden that rests upon your shoulder isn't. Back then, there's only retracing your steps to the stairs to heavens, supported by the wisdom of written souls. Back then, you used to write _stories of Science_ with your hands, but with your feet that harshly skid on the uneven ground, you are now _living_ one. 

It only takes a year or so to _almost_ wipe the slate clean again. (You don't want to write-- much less think about how Taiju is _too_ willing to sacrifice himself for you, or about how Yuzuriha almost died within your reach.) 

There's purple hyacinths stuck in your chest as you wallow in regret-- on how it's too early to pay for your sins, for your selfishness. A year of having someone _dear_ around, and only two days of having _another._

__

"Senkuu-kun--!" 

There's always _something_ you would like to write. 

(Is it worth writing a story, one filled with _selfishness and regret?_ ) 

Now fallen, you let your mind wander-- about how the grounds are not _grounding_ , about how everything is _numb_. Isn't this why you chose to fly in the first place? But then _again,_ was it that you flew too _high_ or that you didn't fly _high enough?_

You wonder too; is this _something_ you should write-- _something_ you should _trace_ on the ground with your feet?

(Of how uncertain you are, of how scared you are to be buried eight feet below.) 

(Of how _sorry_ you are to them, putting them through _this_.) 

(Of how _sorry_ you are to Byakuya, that once he returns, you might not be there if these all _fail_.) 

For some reason, the earth is more blinding than the sun. 

. 

. 

. 

If you'd only danced in the same beat as everyone does, you wonder, would've this happened at all? You'll lose your ability to write-- to glide over a thousand skies, to feel the brumal yet placid clouds-- but you're given a life where you're free from the scorn of the world. 

You laugh. 

You want to write about how the rain lulls you not into sleep but into awakening; you want to write about trees that mourned and _waited._ You want to write about how painful was it to part ways with your _grounds_ as you once again map the land with traces of warm sunlight. 

You want to write about how if you willingly bound yourself into strings, you'd think of an old man who willingly gave you his own wings to _fly_ \-- you'd think of how your erratic heartbeats wouldn't lead you into another set of penumbral yet starlit nights. They wouldn't have lead you where you'd feel how _solid_ rocks are-- where you'd feel _again_ the rays of sunlight you _should've_ lost a long time ago. 

You (don't) want to write about how all his feathers glint rainbows in another misty night. Sometimes, you think about how you and your friends would welcome him back, throw a _cringy_ party of all things. Sometimes, you think of how _hugging_ him would bring you solace the amount you can survive another hundred nights-- of another hundred nights, but _not with him. Never with him._

Sometimes, you think of when you look up, the sun blinds you. Of how when you look down, it's the ground that does. For a realist, you sure cascade with _lies_ to give yourself _false hope._

Therefore-- oftentimes, you look up at the empty night, and whisper it your _regrets._

(Unlike him, it never listens.) 

You want to write a _promise_ \-- (Even if the promise of saving _him_ is long gone-- has expired a thousand years ago) --no, _carve_ it skin deep so you'd never forget. Maybe you'll write about your own selfishness too-- of how you gaze longingly into the moon, constantly extending your arms toward it-- of how you _desire_ the stars and everything _beyond_ \-- of how selfish you are to want to reach all of them for you and for him and for everyone who believes in you. 

(In nights like these, you apologize to a lone lion in hushed whispers.) 

(In nights like these, you apologize to the villagers for bringing danger.) 

You don't like writing about the void. So you never do. 

. 

. 

. 

You find lost lights in the dark of the night. There is void set against your ruby eyes, and suspicious hands on the flat of your back-- and there are whispers; they are all telling you that the bullets that had been scattered had already torn the fabric between hope and reality. They are telling you that it's time to wake up from a dripping passionate slumber. They are telling you that the moon you've zeroed in is far from reach. 

They are telling you it's the end of their lies. 

(Tsukasa has already told you, Senkuu.) 

Your selfishness. 

(But you grip in the edges of a lost reality.)

You wanted to rewrite the world so that you could say all is not lost. 

(Tell us, is what you _seek_ worth the shards beneath your feet? 

When the paper that once had scraped by, now plummeting to give you not endless galaxies, but impenetrable fire from purgatory?) 

_ It's worth it _ . 

You grunt between clenched teeth. 

_ It's worth rewriting the whole world for my hundred nights.  _

There's a fine line between confidence and _outright stupidity._ You've written about it enough times in your lifetime. (You think of how _now you can't,_ when a thousand skies is now getting reduced to nothing but a _thought_ ; a speckle of a show-- used and thrown.) 

_ If I can draw the moon near and retrace it with the pads of my fingertips-- _

(For when the glorious moon is wide and full, you can think, " _ah, you would be the sun if you were dressed in fire_ ", but then-- _only if_ the moon didn't blink its light to bestow it to the stars.) 

_ Then that's better.  _

(To the same stars that said, _"I'm still here."_ ) 

You want to write about how cocky you are, that in the midst of your _found family_ rebelling against you for their own safety, you simply give a grin and a cackle. 

(Should you write about how you _understood_ yet still feel the _pain_ it brings you? How it delivers a crack in the sky, not dripping galaxies but of blood that should've been spilled a long time ago? Would've it been better if you had let the rain lull you in a sense if tranquility? Where your eyes shut, and you fly in nightmares of _never-beens_?) 

Instead, you write about how frail the wood is beneath your feet. 

. 

. 

. 

"I don't know what you mean by that," 

Tonight, you've decided how unusual and illogical it is-- to write a story of how the moon is unfair. Of how it's clad in purples and browns and fur, of how every line it says next feels like an incantation of the universe, where the stars are once again scribbled on the ceiling of the heavens and where the wails of the seas are not lost. The jar is filled now filled with speckles of sunlight, not of _could-be's_ but _can-be's._

You don't like how rubies melt and how sapphires soften. You don't like how their hands are warm and comforting when the night is gone. You don't like how it brings you solace-- to the point you're actually _relieved_ and want to _cry_ ; meld into the floor and stop being the endless sky for _once._

(Oh dear, you little liar. You _like_ it.) 

You want to write about how the telescope sitting right there looks too ethereal not to touch, about how the night sky is closer than ever, about how the observatory brings closer to _home_ than you've ever been. 

You want to write about how the moon and its stars has given you back your night sky.

(Is it the earth that grounds the moon, or is it the moon that does?) 

(And you'd engrave in your next words, of how you'll never regretflying with shards of feathers in your back, and with calloused hands where the descending galaxies _burn_ , you finally _reach._ ) 

There's always been something you _would've_ liked to write. 

(Perhaps one of them would be a question to merely satisfy poetic hearts and never scientific minds-- the question that lays bare about the amount of moons laid out for you.) 

You grin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just realized "you want to count" would be more fitting but i already finished :( i couldnt write science so i went... like this... yes
> 
> writing is inspired by [kohii-san](https://www.twitter.com/starfolds) in the bsd fandom!


	2. mornings

_ You _ are labyrinthine; one who dances with lilt, still in reign of its free will. There's dulcet in recognition, and even more in a pastiche of wings. When you are born with none to speak of, and with the first-rate view of the wide expanse of the sky, there's a well-defined reason to _take._

_ You _ are labyrinthine; one who prefers taking galaxies from the worlds of others, for you've never had one-- you were never taught to have one. There's eloquence as you patch another brand of wings; there's melancholy as you kiss another set of feet. 

_ You _ are labyrinthine; one who'll gladly scrape thorns and rocks into its skin _just_ to find out if within the blood of the unworthy, there are galaxies within. There's a band-aid sitting there as a self-proclaimed panacea, and there's lassitude in wiping one's face from the face of reality. (There's lassitude as you flick rotting cards and wilting flowers from your sleeves out to an enraptured audience, yet their eyes are still closed.) 

Still in denial, you say you're _the_ labyrinth for when autumn came, it never turned old leaves; for when winter came, it never mourned for the disappearance of hydrangeas; for when spring came, it never gave you rebirth but _new faces_ and _new lies_ ; for when summer came, the harshness of the sun has been long inured. 

_ You're labyrinthine _ ; you continue to convince yourself even when winter is long gone; even when spring has come to bloom parched throats and hearts that beat too erratic. There's ineffability in how you continue to do so, at the edge of the bed of someone who's long _gone._

You were convinced to be _one_ , because when wings are broken, there's desperation. Now you think if you hadn't been, then there wouldn't be misery in standing in puddles of addlement. 

. 

. 

. 

Sapphires never burn and the night is always cold. Dancing in others' palms is the same as forming syzygies with the soles of your feet. The wings you've taken and meld, they are of no use; the hands that you use to _write_ , they are of no use. 

(Not to you anyway. At this point, it's never for _you_.) 

There are scraps of paper in an old murky jar. In there, is the unveiled face of a crescent moon; in there, is the sadness of the entire cosmos. 

In there, written are _your_ first words. 

You want to write about an illusion of the moon, where shed feathers aquiver in the face of the night sky. You want to write about bloodstained hands, of foxy smiles, and pretty liars. You want to write about hair dyed in a semblance of purity-- in a semblance of change, but however it is-- whatever it is-- you never write about how you're always left with picking shards of feathers stuck in your feet. 

( _Odd_ , you tell yourself, knowing that they're meant to dig on your back and never in your feet; on your back, hands reclaiming old fortune and tradition; on your back, where whispers of a hiraeth pounds in your ears greatly.) 

There's fear in flying with wings that are not _yours_ , yet you write about how you _continue_ to do so, because you are one _disgusting_ man. There's fear in falling, andthere are galaxies in the sonorous sounds each flap _you_ make. 

All those things--

Yet you wrote about the _void._

__

. 

. 

. 

It takes one day to wipe the slate clean-- where the world is plunged into a state of reformation and decomposition; where skies are a mutated green, and clouds are frigid mists; where humans have evolved into nothing further than _stone._

It takes one day to start an incessant bombinate in your head. 

It takes 3700 years of epiphany to question _who you are._

. 

. 

. 

There's raking of the nails in the door as you're deep in your slumber; multiple bells ringing a mellifluous sound of anger and torment. Ice numbs and fire burns the _sinners_ down to their core. But inside the stone you placidly laid in, the depravity _burns._

So you regard that when they finally _crack_ , there's phosphate in your eyes, and somehow, the world is iridescent and blinding. That somehow, there's reassurance in the cracks you're stepping in; but when you look up to see the welcoming thousand skies, all you see are stones of piled up _resentment._

__

(You're alive because you have _use._ ) 

_ You  _ are labyrinthine ; it's a reminder from a world too illusionary to delve into further; it's a reminder from _them_ who pulled out your tongue and settled your hands. All so _they_ could proper; all so _everyone_ could prosper they said. 

Galaxies are _false_ , blood is _shallower_ than most liquids, and hiraeth always stands, set aflame under multiple sunsets of death and revival. 

(Perhaps you _could_ rejoice in being settled into a world far away from _them_ , but not now-- not when you're in front of a man of ideals and fists tainted with _dream-come-true-s._ )

It is because you are _labyrinthine_ (you don't write pathetic, however true it may be) that you set your gaze in the deep red seas and never a fellow man who's bred to bleed the same illusion for others. 

(He talks of ideals dipped in cold rainbows, and dusk that never settles.) 

(You are a fool, therefore you think of how to discolour and disarrange a garden of petunias.) 

It is because you are _labyrinthine ;_ a shallow mist that walks on the path of thorns and never among the flowers, that you unravel blossoms that never once mattered; that you never unveil it in front of anybody. 

It is because you are a shallow bastard that you call everything you _do_ in the pretense of being _labyrinthine_. There's no shame as you _follow_ him, leaving trails of a fabrication in the form of a man. 

You are about to immerse a thousand skies with nightshades. 

You are about to constrict a lion with a den of crab blossoms. 

Yet you feel no guilt. 

Yet you feel no shame. 

(Really?) 

. 

. 

. 

You have an ongoing list of what not to write. It's exceptionally long, and it's a list that adds to another list of your undeniable lies.

You never want to write about how you're _aware_ of one's suffering. Of how you can understand. But you know we can never burn fire with fire; it's fine to trust you at least on this since you've been in _hell._ You never want to write about the hyssops and irises in your wake as all you give him are bouquets of edelweiss.

And you never want to write about an admiration that bloomed under the shade of trees as you listen to what should've been left as _tell-tales_ and nothing more-- as you see numbers carved into a tree-- and as you feel, for the first time, the non-existent ink of the cosmos in between the carved spaces.

It makes you wonder how it feels like how to gently _write_ your own wings in the sky.

Too much to the point you've already left a bunch of hyssops in your wake.

. 

. 

. 

You are _labyrinthine_ because you don't want to accept life as being one. Unlike _you_ , it doesn't only consist of twists and turns, but also of ups and downs. Unlike _you_ , it resists from utter destruction and despite rebelling against it, it gives you an epoch. 

You are _labyrinthine_ \-- or so what you say eventually gets lost as you find your own haven in a garden; one that should be perceived as a graveyard, since you'rethe _enemy-_ \- but you see, a shallow man's heart is weak to the face of kindness. It makes you want to use them, don't you? 

(Again, you are a great liar.) 

You are but a fool. 

(Especially when you've forsaken a shallow ideal, and instead, pursued a naive one.) 

(And as you lay, tucked into a comfortable bed with salves covering your injured body, you are covered with lost rays of sunlight; once you've never encountered before. They all call you by _your name_ , the way your used light bulbs didn't.) 

(And as you lay, tucked into a comfortable bed with salves covering your injured body, the moon is out and full, and there are stars covering the wide expanse of the night sky.) 

(Somehow, they tell you that you are a _set of fools._ ) 

. 

. 

. 

You often wonder about the need to trace the world's story back into the pavement and into the skies then to what's beyond. You often wonder why you lack the desire to _write._ You often wonder why you like staring at your bare feet-- of why you don't like wearing shoes. 

It hurts, but it grounds. You tell yourself that as you run back to Tsukasa's kingdom that you've traveled from in the span of _days_ , and you wish to make it in one piece and in one day. It's a joke you want to laugh at-- all for a mere bottle of cola! 

(Is it the cola that will quench your parched throat that only thirsts for honeysuckle?) 

There are thousands of papers that run along the ground-- ones that you scampered away from, yet now you're leaving indents of more hyssops disguised as nightshades.

(Your mask cracks into pieces.) 

You ignore how you're tempted to write as you lie in the face of somebody who can snap your neck in a matter of seconds. 

(They fall, fall, and fall…) 

You ignore how erratic your heart is and how melodious are the snapping of the strings that were dug in your back as you lean back against a tree, panting, and breathing out your lies of desiring a cola of all things. 

You ignore how you've finally gained wings of your own. 

(There are things you would like to write.) 

(One of them would soon tell of a story of your realization as you _truly_ look into the deep blue skies, that the sun doesn't really blind.) 

(And neither does the first man-made light--their _hope_ \-- in 3700 years the fools lit at night.) 

. 

. 

. 

You've only heard of tell-tales about mornings, but you know that they're of closed blinds with sunlight peeking through, warm beds, and the scent of coffee and breakfast-- you know that there's something vulnerable in them. You can say you'd like to close your eyes, but you can't, not when they're already sewn shut a long time ago; branded only for the void to witness.

It's only your hands that are deft. It's only your mouth that can provide mellifluous lies. It's only your ears that can hear wails of the seas (and you can hear how they plan on taking that away too). They can't mar your face for the beauty it holds.

So there's no reason for you to see.

(But now you can, and there's a well-defined reason _to._ ) 

You wonder if this is what they feared so they branded you with _labrynthine_ ; for the morning skies that had greeted you revealed hues of warm oranges and tranquil turquoises, and of shared huts and tender smiles. 

You wonder if this is what they feared so they branded you with _labrynthine_ ; the fact that you'd find _hydrangeas_ that bloom in the face of reality (and finally, you rejoice, of how it's not only a _wish_ anymore) and how you'll re-discover your old murky jar and plant new seeds to take over it. 

Sometimes, you can't help but look up at the ceiling that's marked with ambitious hands and is on its way to be filled with scribbles of stars. You can't help but smile at how deformed they are; of how defined is the deformity they are in. 

_ How can be there stars in the morning?  _

You wonder too. 

(What are attached are strings of _bond_ , and never of a puppeteer's. So you'll gladly let them drag you, butburns and scrapes from the past never fade so you sometimes wonder if there'll be a time you'll get pushed from an upside down eiffel tower with stars falling with you-- just like in the dream you had decades ago.) 

. 

. 

. 

Surprise, surprise. There's something you want to write, and perhaps, it would be about your fear of all of this being a huge dream; of how you'd be a somnambulist in the land of serendipity-- therefore, you face that fear by not wearing shoes so you can feel your skin splinter from your delighted wails about this kind of reality. 

This kind of reality-- _you write_ \-- where the starlit night sky is unusually bright and filled with the colors of hope, mystery, and tranquility, and where the breeze soothes you and where the sun is both a humble king and a tyrant. 

This kind of reality-- _you write_ \-- where used feathers are dull in the face of the ground at night, but you vow to never forget how they once shone as you grow your own feathers like it's pastiche. You write about how they're nicely sewn in your back. But you never write how awful they feel. 

(How awful they feel, in the sense that you've left Tsukasa and of all things, they _flourished_ \-- and the fact that you're aware of how selfish you are in the way you act and say that betraying him is for his own good.) 

(How awful they feel, in the sense that they're but the same feathers regrown from the ones you've stolen before. It's awful that it's now in your essence to lie.) 

This kind of reality-- you _write_ \-- where meals taste bland but better when shared; where days are exhausting and long but never lacking and short; where nights that used to be freezing, leaving you shadows of doubt and despair are of no more; where your magic is _just_ entertainment not to draw out wishes of adults but to draw out happiness. 

You also want to write how you used to hate sunsets with all your being, yet you couldn't find the reason _why_. Was it because they are fiery, and you could never _be_? Was it because they know what you don't know? 

Was it because there was epiphany in sunsets, or was it because you were scared of the night you've always basked in? All because you convinced yourself that you are not a _man_ , but a _labyrinth_ to be used for your _family_ to prosper. 

Your pen shakes. 

You tell of how selfish you are, but you know in yourself that you'd very well become _something else_ for the haven you found-- for the _family_ you _found._

(Of course, you don't forget whom to thank in the first place. You figured you can do your mentalism in healthy and kind ways, and you've already profiled him-- so you give him a telescope to remind him of his hundred nights.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi I will never shut up about how I believe gen's first appearance was just for show and that he's a sweet bab
> 
> this was a little hard to write because we still have no backstory of this bab
> 
> if you liked it, please leave a comment/kudos <(*- -*)>


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